Afterlife
by terrified
Summary: [CONTAINS SERIES 4 SPOILERS] A one-shot. Molly attempts to settle back in after a few harrowing weeks working with Sherlock on a plan that had as usual, put his life at risk. Molly's spirits rise and fall as her resilience to protect the man she loves collides with the fear of one day not being able to.


**_A/N:_** _There was a phrase Molly uttered in The Lying Detective that really stuck out for me. So much meta has been written about it too! I am firmly of the school of thought that she was in on Sherlock's big plan in The Lying Detective. I also like writing very Molly-centric fic, uncovering her strengths and vulnerabilities. That said, I had intended this to be light-hearted and sorta fluffy but I think the weight of emotions from the episode is continuing to manifest itself. It took a completely different path, tonally, but still gave me the feels while writing it. I hope you'll feel em too._ xx

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 **CONTAINS**

 **SERIES**

 **FOUR**

 **SPOILERS** **!**

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 ** _Afterlife  
_** _  
_

 _I'm stressed, you're dying._

The moment the words escaped her lips, Molly remembered regretting them instantly. She recalled glancing quickly at John, to see if he had caught on to what she had said and if she had, in her careless outburst, given the game away.

Except it was not a game. She would never have called it that, certainly not with this one. It was a ludicrous plan, but when were they ever not? Molly _was_ stressed, and Sherlock _was_ dying, but this was going to work. It angered her that it had come to this again - Sherlock, teetering on the edge of death, and her, managing the thin rope that kept him from the fall.

Now that she was home after it all, it still amazed her she had agreed yet again to such an elaborate scheme of Sherlock's near-certain death. As she stood by her kitchen counter, Molly frowned as she waited almost angrily for the kettle to boil, only to laugh at herself at the fact that she was now seething at an inanimate object. Clearly, she was still on edge. Exhaling deeply, she averted her eyes from the offending kettle and was surprised to see she had not noticed the shadow looming by her kitchen door.

"You should be resting," she said, almost icily, turning her eyes back to the kettle. It did not anger her anymore, the kettle. Someone else did.  
"You said you were stressed," came his voice, somewhat strained, "I thought I'd come see you."  
"You're dying—" she said, repeating her words from this afternoon.  
"Not anymore," he cut in, "I've been cleaned up."  
"Then you should be resting," she persisted, now finally able to pour the boiled water over her tea leaves.

Molly normally never took sugar with anything, but decided today she deserved a cube and chucked one into her steaming cup. After stirring it a few times, she walked out of her kitchen, sailing coolly pass the detective as she made her way to her dining table.

"You don't want to talk to me," he said, following behind.  
"I'm fine talking," she said, "I just don't want to look at you. Not when you're like this."  
"Like what?" he said, pausing a little to catch his breath.

The fact that he had made it to her flat and was able to stand was most miraculous, for Sherlock was still impossibly weak. Although he had been given sufficient medical attention after having nearly been choked to death by a serial killer, the beatings his body had been through were finally taking their toll. He was bruised everywhere from when he had stumbled and fallen or knocked things over in his hallucinogenic highs. On top of that, he had been beaten to a pulp by his angry best friend. Internally, every organ was in a state of protest, having been traumatised from months of drug abuse and invasive chemical procedures he had insisted on for this case.

"Like you're _dying_ ," she remarked matter-of-factly. "How many times would you like that repeated?"

He managed to cough out a dry laugh as he limped his way to pull up a chair beside her. Molly kept her eyes looking straight ahead, refusing to turn to face the detective.

"Molly," he began.  
"Yes?" she answered, sipping her tea.  
"I'm _not_ dying," he said, "Not anymore."  
"For today, maybe."  
"That's true," he said with a small chuckle.

At the sound of his laugh, she whipped her head round and stared hard at him. Sherlock returned her stare, unafraid and unrepentant, as he tried to bite down a growing grin at her cold and furious glare.

"Now, _I'm_ stressed," he said, sighing dramatically as he leaned back into his chair.  
"Good. You deserve it," she answered, equally unrepentant.

Sherlock laughed again only to end up wincing slightly from the bruises along his ribcage. Instinctively, Molly set her cup down and turned to check him, immediately running her expert hands along the side of his torso, carefully feeling his ribs to check for fractures or broken bones. It was as though a switch had been turned on the moment she heard even one sound of discomfort escape him and she swung right into action.

"You're fine," she said quietly, checking his other side, "Yes, you're fine…"

It seemed that only by hearing her own words could she now believe that Sherlock really _was_ fine. The tension in her body seemed to break like someone cutting the strings off a marionette. Molly collapsed onto the table, cupping her head in her hands as she tried to steady her breathing. Her body entered into shock as it transited from weeks of crippling anxiety to finally being able to breathe again.

"Molly," Sherlock whispered as he put his arms around her shaking shoulders.  
"You're…." she had to pause to gasp for air, "… _fine_."  
The pair of them did not speak as Sherlock held her close to his broken body whilst Molly let him, her eyes wide open and tearless.

"Now, I'm _really_ stressed," he remarked, gently stroking her hair.  
"Why?" she whispered back.  
"Because now _you're_ dying…" Sherlock answered, his voice tight.  
"I _never_ die," said Molly fiercely. "Who'd save your _stupid_ _arse_ if I did?"  
"God, you sound like me now," replied the detective.

There was a moment of silence, before they both started to laugh softly. As they did, they also cried, clutching on to each other as though their lives depended on it. Sherlock kissed Molly's hair, then her cheek when finally, both their lips met, grateful to have found each other.

"We're fine now," he whispered against her lips, "Both of us. We're fine."

Molly smiled as they kissed once more, grateful that yes, they were fine and that if ever Sherlock was going to die again, she would be there to bring him back once more.

 _I'm stressed, you're dying._

 _But I won't let you._

 **END**


End file.
